


King of Ashes

by Minita



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Infidelity, Nameless Sansa’s husband, Sexual Content, Wilding Jon, angry Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 03:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19455823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minita/pseuds/Minita
Summary: Jon refuses to bend the knee to the Queen in the North. Both Jon and Sansa are married to someone else.





	King of Ashes

The cell is very damp and cold but he’s used to it for his years up in the real north. He barely gets any sleep for all the dog noises because the cell is right next to the kennels but he’s been much worse. This is actually the third time he’s in chains. He would feel like laughing maybe. If he were the man he used to be.

He was once a bastard. Then a crow. Then a traitor. Then he was king. A bile taste is in his mouth. Ashes. That’s what everything is. That’s what everything comes back to. He wonders what the penalty is for what he has done. Will he hang?.

He’s starting to dose again when he hears the gate of his cell open. He opens his eyes and there she is. Impossibly tall. A leather corset like an armour covers her chest. Her eyes are the sky, her cheeks are red from the cold. The bloody winter has lasted seven years and not a sign that it will be over anytime soon. Yet in his chest rises a strange sort of heat.

Her voice cuts the cold space between them. “Unchain him.” The guard gives her a side look but moves forward, accustomed to obey his Queen. His legs tremble a bit but he manages to stand up. He locks eyes with her and forgets to breath.

The faintest of the smiles is in her lips. “You really got yourself in trouble this time, Jon.” Jon. That was his name once. Before he burnt. “I’m not a kneeler. You’re not my Queen.”  
She still smiles. “I know.” She takes a step into the cell, “you’re not in the far north anymore, here we have rules. You invaded a village and killed several men. My men.” 

Punishment. He wants it so badly. If just to feel something. He remembers Olly hanging. He swallows, “kill me then, and be done with it.”  
He can see something behind the Queen’s eyes. A flame maybe. She takes another step and holds his hands, “my council has reached a decision, you will live, on one condition”  
“What?”  
“You will take the invaders back to where they came and return the Dreadfort to northern hands where it belongs.”  
“The Dreadfort is yours.”  
“It’s been vacant for years. We will give it to poor men to work the land.”  
“It belongs to you. You’re Ramsay’s widow,” he spits.

The flame in her eyes grows brighter and she lifts her chin, “put him back in the chains.”

He smiles, satisfied.

Two days later he walks ten steps behind her, a tall guard holding each of his arms. The snow is so deep he sinks to his knees and his chained wrists drag him down. He shivers in trousers and shirt. They took his wildling furs. They must have burned them. Southern cunts.

The Queen stops right outside the Hunter’s gate and the guards pull him by the chains to make him stop. Hoarg, Vin and Siget stand in front of him holding their swords. The women are pointing their arrows at her and the guards. Six. Six wildlings are no match to the Queen’s men with their good steel and the archers on the ramparts. He can feel their eyes on the back of his neck. “Tara,” he shakes his head, “put it down.” The rest of the women follow suit.

The Queen speaks, “thank you for agreeing to parley. You will not regret it.”  
Tara frowns and says, “you’re not our queen, we won’t kneel, and neither will him.”  
“You were once my guests, you and your sister took shelter here at Winterfell when your father...”  
“My father is dead. He came for King Crow, because we believed his word. Then your people took him south and betrayed him,” Tara squeezes the arrow in her hand, “we are not traitors like you southerners, we know how to be grateful.” 

Hoarg takes a step forward and talks, “he’s not yours anymore, he belongs with us.”

If she is upset she’s very good at concealing it, her voice does not falter when she says, “my cousin Jon is a prisoner of the Crown and he has already been sentenced by my council. I will be merciful and let you go back to your lands on the condition that you leave Dreadfort immediately. You will not be persecuted, you have my word.”

The silence that follows is ice. He can hear his own heartbeat. His stomach rumbles. He has only had a few pieces of bread. Twice they gave him potatoes with maggots. He threw them to the rats.

Hoarg opens his mouth and he can smell his foul breath, “your word?, why would we trust a southerner’s word?.”  
“Aye,” Tara lifts the bow again, “we need assurances.”

The Queen crosses her hands in front of her and looks at them in the eye. She’s silent for a moment and he can see them getting restless. She’s playing them. Playing with them like a cat with a mouse.

“You have three days.” Light snowflakes melt in the fire of her hair, “if you’re still at the Dreadfort when my men get there I will order the attack. My men will be mounted.” Tara’s hand on the bow trembles a little. “How’s that for an assurance?,” the Queen says as she turns around. She has not taken three steps when Siget speaks, “our children are hungry.” The Queen stops but doesn’t turn.

“We lost many in the storms, Tormund and others, there’s nothing to hunt.” She blinks, her back still to the wildlings, her eyes to the archers in the ramparts. “I don’t have any children, they...the Others took them.” There are snowflakes on her lips and eyelashes now. “But they do,” Siget points at the others, “and even his babe,” he nods at Jon. Tara lowers the bow. “Please, we thought we could find food south, or hunt,” Siget pleads.

The Queen turns around slowly, “three days,” her voice is a clear cold stream, “I expect we won’t find any goats or grain left by the time my men get there.” The guards pull him and he stumbles, and as they’re closing the gate behind the Queen he hears Tara say, “what about him?, he comes with us.” The Queen gives him a side look and then she smiles to them, “he stays. I need assurances, you see?.”

He can see one side of her face in the candlelight, the other side is in the shadows. She sounds tired, “so, a babe, hah?.” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. He’s always tired and cold. And hungry. “He’s not mine.”  
The Queen puts her pale hands around the bars and says, “did you marry her?”  
“I stole her.”  
“It’s like marriage for them, isn’t it?.”  
“Yes.”  
“Then he’s yours. I’m happy for you.” He’s colder, “no.”  
“But, how can you tell...?”  
“Because I spill it on the ground!,” his bones are frozen, “all right?.” “She...she confessed, she asked me to forgive her, he was from the River clans.” He remembers the man’s screams when he chopped his manhood. “She said she would have moon tea, I...I said no.” Speaking is painful, but is as if he couldn’t stop. “Tara is Tormund’s child. She and her sister have no one else. They took shelter at Castle Black after the last storm, and one thing let to another.”  
“Is it a boy?.”  
He smiles,“do you want to know his name?.”  
She nods.  
“Robb.”

He likes chopping wood, he gets warm and tired, and he sleeps better with the servants in the kitchen. It’s certainly an improvement from that cold cell he left a week ago. He’s trying to get a splinter out of his hand when he hears the commotion in the courtyard. Curiosity makes him turn his head to the men dismounting. He’s tall and broad, his dark hair touches his shoulders. His cape and boots look expensive. He talks loud and walks upstairs stumping his feet.

He forgets about him for days, until he has to take the wood to her chambers. They’re at the table having supper, the Queen’s back is to the fire, frost covers the windows. He’s saying, “I’m telling you, we may have more bad storms coming in...” he stops. Jon can feel his eyes on him. He finishes stoking the fire and as he closes the door behind him the lord’s voice fades away, “I see he’s out of chains.”  
“He’s my cousin.” The fire creaks.  
“Well, if you’re decided at least make him take a bath. He stinks.” She says nothing. “Just not in our tub. He’s got lice.”

The bath is steamy and it smells like rosemary. Ripples of pleasure form in his skin. He ties the towel around his waist and walks to a table to find a small mirror, a bowl with soap and a brand new knife. He’s just done shaving when the door cracks open. She walks to him holding something in her arms, “these are very old but at least they’ll fit. They’re yours.” She glances at his chest covered in scars for the briefest moment.

The feeling of his old clothes is odd. The trousers hang loose. He steps from behind the screen and is shocked to see her standing there still. She frowns, “take them off. I’ll have to fix them.”  
“No. I don’t want you to see me naked.” She shrugs, “I’ve seen men naked before, they all have the same parts, trust me.”  
As her hands fold the fabric over his hips he can feel her fingers made of fire, “Jon, don’t move.” His naked skin gets prickles from the cold. The Queen begins humming and the needle moves at a fast pace, “there.”

When he stands up the towel falls to the ground. The Queen stares at him. Fear overcomes him. “I,” he begins, “I want to go back to them, please, if it pleases Your Grace.” His whole body shakes. She touches him again and his skin sizzles. She says softly, “do you miss her?.”  
He has done it. Many times. Like an animal, with his body. But not the way it was with Ygritte, with his mind and his soul, and letting her touch the ice in his chest. He looks into her eyes and drowns.

In the frozen air she moves and presses herself against his hips. His body has a will on his own and he can’t stop it. The Queen. But she’s my sister. Not. He kisses her with his mouth open and she lets him, but when he puts his hand under her skirt she shudders. She takes a step back and leaves. He didn’t see her again until two weeks ago. The Maester at Arms fell with fever and the Queen ordered him to take care of the armoury and the daily training. 

He got Longclaw back. He hasn’t trained properly in years but his hands retain the memory of countless battles and he’s still faster than most of those green boys. The Queen and her lord husband have been watching from the balcony for a while. 

“Pivot, shield, move your feet Harry!, pivot!” The boy stops suddenly and looks above his shoulder. Jon turns quickly. “My Lord.” The man is at least one head taller than him but not as tall as Tormund was. He observes his thick arms and broad shoulders and the beautifully carved pommel of his sword. A bastard sword like Longclaw but not Valyrian of course. The man smiles as he draws it. A gasp raises from the crowd at the courtyard. “I’ve heard so much of the great and mighty King Crow and his magical steel. May I have the honour?.”

The sounds of the courtyard faint and as they begin dancing Jon observes his face. The man is strong and his strokes are certain but he looks to his left every time before he strikes. Jon keeps his guard really low to force him to lift his sword and he keeps moving in bigger and bigger circles until the lord begins to pant. Thick drops of sweat fall from his forehead and his footwork gets sloppy. Jon keeps walking. 

The lord looks to his left and raises the steel very high. Jon takes a step to his right and without hurrying he plunges Longclaw just below his shoulder. The Valyrian steel rips the lord’s beautiful doublet cutting through his richly embroidered shirt and his white skin. A ripple of blood flies in the air and falls in Jon’s hand and Longclaw’s pommel. He can hear muffled screams and curses and all of the sudden is her hand grabbing his. “Stop!” She shrieks, “Jon stop! Please! Jon, Jon!”

The next morning he’s back in wood chopping duty. His mouth tastes like ashes. She’s nowhere to be seen. He waits. One day as he’s hauling a wheelbarrow through the courtyard he raises his eyes and sees her, a vision in a deep blue dress he hasn’t seen before. She looks the same. He’s pale and his left side is bandaged. The lord locks eyes with him and his nostrils flare as if he’s perceiving some foul smell. Jon stops for a moment and then smiles at her before going.

That night the moon is full and he can hear wolves howling in the distance. Not Ghost. He must be back in the north with Tara and Robbie. He gets up and walks, guided by his legs which seem to know where they’re going. The only light in the crypts comes from a few candles next to father’s statue. Her left shoulder and arm are covered by a black coat of what looks like crow’s feathers. They’re so close he can see the shadow of her eyelashes on her cheeks. She’s wearing the blue dress he liked.

“Why did you do it?” The stone arches echo her voice.  
“He came at me. I thought we will just parry.” She pierces her lips together.  
“Did you expect me to let him cut me?”  
“Do you want to die?” She turns to him.  
“He couldn’t catch me even if I was tied to a tree.”  
Her eyes are two blue flames. “He could have you executed.”  
Jon wants to hold her. To kiss her. To touch her hair.  
“I had a hard time convincing him to spare you.” His mouth dries in fear. “You’re leaving for the Wall tomorrow.”

The Queen gives him an old skinny horse. “He won’t make it to the Wall,” he stares at her.  
“He will. Just give him plenty of rest. You better ride slowly.”  
Jon rises his sight and locks eyes with him. He’s out of the bandage. He hopes his shoulder hurts at night.  
“Where would you camp?”  
He fails to understand her words at first. Then a small flame begins burning in him. He keeps his head low, hoping her husband won’t catch any word, “right pass the tree line about a mile east there’s a narrow stream. Follow it until you find the hollow Weirdwood tree with the roots sticking out of the ground.” Her expression is unchanged and she turns around without hugging him.

The fire has been going for a while when he hears a horse through the trees. He sits frozen with his back to the trunk. When he sees her face warmth inundates him. He holds her head with his hands and kisses her hair. Sansa touches the tip of the scar on his heart and then kisses it. Jon unties the top of her corset and sees the pale scars that cover her like bird feathers.

Without a single word she unlaces his breeches and her fingertips are scalding hot. He lifts her skirt and moves his fingers until he can find it. He presses, gently and hard, he rubs and when she starts breathing hard he puts two fingers inside. Sansa bites his neck and her hair covers his nose and mouth, lighted and alive. Their bodies send sparks flying like two stones smashing against each other and Jon realises he has caught fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this crazy idea last night that Jon was Sansa’s prisoner. Slow burn but Jonsa sex at the end.


End file.
